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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27633602">A little sincerity</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sazandorable/pseuds/Aza'>Aza (sazandorable)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(everyone else too tbh), Also Marriage Proposal?, Asexual Relationship, Canon Asexual Character, Cuddling &amp; Snuggling, Getting Together, M/M, Not Relationship?, Queerplatonic Relationship?, RQG174 spoilers, Relationship Negotiation, Resurrection, Season 4 Spoilers, Shipper On Deck Cel, Slight Canon Divergence, Something Relationship They're Working On The Name, written and set after RQG174 Impact; ignores RQG175 Ascension and on</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:02:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,872</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27633602</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sazandorable/pseuds/Aza</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s busy, after the resurrection, so it’s a good two hours before things have calmed down and Zolf actually gets to sit down with Wilde and get to business.</p><p>Written for <a href="https://rqgwildeweek.tumblr.com/post/632262054441631744/header-image-by-areyouokaypanda-image-text-a">A Wilde Week 2020, day 4: <b>Life</b> | <b>Death</b> | Survival</a></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>100</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>A Wilde Week 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A little sincerity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title from an Oscar Wilde quote. Inspired in large part by <a href="https://twitter.com/areyouokaypanda/status/1317030003666726913">@areyouokaypanda’s amazing art</a>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s busy, after the resurrection. After returning the dead to life, there’s the matter of keeping them there, as well as getting <em>everyone </em>to survive the night in snowed-in woodlands. Azu handles the medical checks and taking care of Sohra, as well, after all that exertion. Half of the able remaining crew get busy figuring out sleeping arrangements, as, while the cabins mostly avoided any damage in the crash actual, the ship is currently lying on its side, leaving the floors at a 45° angle and most of the furniture capsized. The kitchen, for its part, did get hit; didn’t explode, but after analysis and a discussion with the kobolds, Cel admits that none of them are confident that it won’t do so if used, so another task group sets up a makeshift cooking corner on land — fetching firewood, ingredients, utensils and cutlery. Hamid manages to set the damp wood alight, and Zolf starts cooking.</p><p>So it’s a good two hours before things have calmed down and he actually gets to sit down, with his own meal, next to Wilde.</p><p>By virtue of having literally died and of being the frailest of all in that situation, Wilde was allotted the best spot, closest to the fire and most shielded from the wind by the hull of the crashed ship. Carter was assigned to the second best spot, nearby but far enough to not be a complete nuisance, and the recently-impaled Barnes was assigned to keeping Carter sat and still and resting. As for Sassraa and Meerk, they have been absorbed in a pile of their compatriots. From what Zolf can tell, Meerk appears to be happily taking the fussing and coddling, while Sassraa seems more annoyed and reticent about it. He still has trouble interpreting the kobolds’ body language and social cues, but he can recognise prideful ‘<em>I’m fine, don’t need help</em>’. For what it’s worth, they really are looking to be in excellent shape; the events caused spontaneous moulting in both of them, which made for quite the disturbing sight for about ten minutes, but by now their fresh new scales are gleaming with a healthy lustre, like polished steel. New spikes are even burgeoning on Sassraa’s brow, if Zolf isn’t mistaken.</p><p>The impact on the humans isn’t quite so generous. Carter is only just reaching the end of the nervous freak-out he started the minute he returned to consciousness, and it’ll probably be another hour or so before he may, perhaps, be convinced, after all, by Sohra’s assurance that the change is merely cosmetic and he isn’t going to just die again in a couple days of old age.</p><p>Carter is Carter; Wilde is another matter.</p><p>Wilde has been quiet. He has been, for once in his life (or — well —), obeying his orders to rest. When Zolf joins him, two hours after everything, he is still swaddled in the thick blanket Azu gave him, over the thick coat Hamid made him (his hair peeks out starkly from the dark fabric and furs) and he is taking slow, fastidious sips from his bowl of Zolf’s soup. It isn’t an easy process, between the paralysed half of his mouth and the slight tremor lingering in his hands, but he is managing. The shaking has decreased much from what Zolf caught sight of two hours ago; there’s a good chance it will eventually go completely. Sohra said that returning is always a shock on the body, but, for the time window they’re dealing with, the resurrected typically retrieve within a few days the same level of ability and quality of life as before their passing.</p><p>The other side-effects are likely to stay, though.</p><p>At Zolf’s approach, Wilde looks up, and then gives a slight jerk of his head to clear his eyes of the locks of hair that have fallen in them. Zolf has been thinking for ages that it’s been in dire need of a cut. Wouldn’t have liked having had to do that to a corpse.</p><p>He sits down, a graceless undertaking as always with the heavy legs on uneven ground, and asks: “How’s the soup?”</p><p>When Wilde shrugs, the wind-blown messy mass of his hair shifts like an avalanche over the bundled materials covering his shoulders. “I enhanced it.” Carefully, he balances his wooden bowl on his lap and extends a hand out to spread it over Zolf’s own serving. His shuddering hand does a halting, rusty flourish, his half-moving mouth opens and lets out a short little lilt of a tune in a voice raspy from disuse. Relearning.</p><p>It’s still nice. Wilde has a nice singing voice. Zolf knew that, sortof, that was information stored away somewhere in the dusty bookshelves at the very back of his head; but it was left there and forgotten, because he hasn’t heard it in nearly two years. He has known Wilde shackled and non-singing for much longer than the opposite, really.</p><p>Scowling preemptively, Zolf takes a suspicious sniff from his bowl. It smells distinctly alcoholic.</p><p>“You wanted grog, could’ve just asked,” he grumbles on principle.</p><p>The one corner of Wilde’s mouth tugs upwards. “You had enough on your plate, as it were.”</p><p>“On <em>your</em> plate, technically,” Zolf points out before taking a swig. He smacks his lips loudly and grimaces — he can make a perfectly good <em>zosui</em> rice soup with a decent kitchen at his disposal, but besides the fact that he doesn’t exactly have that at the moment, rice is <em>not</em> meant to be consumed soaked <em>in </em>booze — and still takes another gulp before speaking up. “Can’t believe you’re doing that but not prestidigitating yourself up.”</p><p>“Ah, well.” Wilde shrugs again, artfully casual and unaffected, but there is something self-conscious still, Zolf thinks, in the way he cards his fingers through his hair. Despite Wilde’s best efforts at nonchalance, the motion is clumsy, awkward, and Zolf doesn’t blame only the tremor. “Not much of a point hiding it when everyone here is already aware anyway, is there?”</p><p>Zolf snorts.</p><p>“Yeah? That never stopped you before.”</p><p>He thinks of the illusionist spymaster he met two years ago, in London, in Paris, who hid worry and exhaustion under make-up, spells, wordcraft, smiles. But there isn’t much of that man left in the Oscar Wilde sitting today next to him.</p><p>Wilde hums, non-committal, and brings his bowl of soup up to his mouth again. His hair falls in his eyes and his eyes fall closed, as though it’s Zolf’s best hearty stew, as though it’s godly nectar. He stays like this for a moment, holding the wooden bowl in his shaking hands like something precious, taking in the warm wafts, and slowly, carefully, takes another sip. He’s still young, younger than Zolf and a human to boot, but between the shaking, the hair and the lines exhaustion has carved into his face, he looks like an old man right now.</p><p>Zolf wants to see him age for real. Zolf wants to see him live long and grow old, wants to see the result and the process, wants to be there the whole time and see it happen, cook him soup and bundle him up in blankets in winter, get drunk together on his fancy cocktails in summer evenings and insult each other’s books throughout the year, become even more tired old men together.</p><p>“Speaking of,” Zolf says. “What’s your stance these days on tying knots?”</p><p>To his credit, Wilde doesn’t flounder or stutter, doesn’t even open his eyes, but Zold still notices the short, rattled pause before he answers dismissively: “Yes, yes, I shall endeavour to pay more attention to securing my lifeline from now on.”</p><p>“You know what I mean.”</p><p>“I’m sure I don’t,” Wilde snaps back instantly. “Haven’t the faintest idea what you could possibly be alluding to, <em>Zolf</em>.” His tone isn’t even that cutting, only a little sharp, just a glint of revealed blade with no movement to stab; still, Zolf knows a warning when he hears one.</p><p>He also, infamously, is not great at minding those.</p><p>“<em>Oscar</em>,” he retaliates, and reaches out. They’re sitting right in plain sight of the entire group gathered around the fire or the ship, Carter and Barnes are sitting just a few paces away, anyone could see, but: <em>everyone here is already aware anyway</em>, and there is a point but Zolf doesn’t care anymore, and Wilde’s hair is in his face.</p><p>Wilde is hunched down, curled in on himself, and they’re sitting close enough that Zolf doesn’t need to stretch at all: he easily tucks a lock of white hair out of Wilde’s face and behind his ear. Wilde’s eyelids quiver like butterfly wings, and a twitch twinges through the mobile part of his face.</p><p>“<em>Mister Smith</em>,” Wilde says, quiet but intense, “don’t.”</p><p>“Why not?” Zolf whispers back.</p><p>Wilde’s eyes are flashing when they finally flick open, and with a rough jostle he shrugs Zolf’s hand away. “If you truly can’t figure out what a <em>spectacularly</em> bad idea it is you are suggesting,” he hisses viciously, “that’s only more reason. Although I suppose one can’t expect much intelligence of an uneducated, badly-read dwarven miner runaway.” He is lashing out, now, that blade unsheathed and lunging, teeth bared, venomous fangs. “Why exactly should I be interested in a foul-mooded, boorish white-haired dwarf half my height with two legs missing and unresolved anger issues?”</p><p>“A good two-thirds of your height,” Zolf points out blithely. “You done?”</p><p>“Oh, you know I love putting on a good show, but I prefer an audience that can actually follow.”</p><p>“I’m not as clever as you are, but I’m not <em>stupid</em>. I know what you’re doing,” Zolf informs him, bluntly, because he has never been one for subtlety and there is no point in trying to go up against Oscar Wilde with that weapon.</p><p>Wilde bristles, all righteous and tight-laced offence, which is certainly a turn of some tables. “Do you now? What <em>am</em> I doing, o wise Mister Smith?”</p><p>“Being difficult on purpose. Making yourself as rude, nasty, unlikeable as possible, so I’ll change my mind.”</p><p>Wilde’s eyes narrow, so he seems determined to be as stubborn as Zolf himself ever is. “Have you considered that perhaps this simply is how I <em>am</em>? Maybe I truly am an utterly unpleasant person, and now I don’t even have good looks going on for me to make up for it.”</p><p>“We match now, jerk!” Zolf cackles, and he doesn’t miss the twitch of Wilde’s lips, even as the man insists on keeping the good half of his face scrunched up in a cold and stern expression. “Breaking news, ye dunce, I know you’re a bastard, and I’m still askin’.” He sobers up and, very deliberately, gives an unconcerned shrug. “Besides, you know I’m not big on the physical stuff. And <em>I </em>know I ain’t ever been much of a looker either and that’s not been a problem for you.”</p><p>“Why would you say that?” Wilde scoffs. He is the picture of outrage again, sneering and haughty, and Zolf doesn’t buy it for a second.</p><p>“Am I wrong?” he retorts, serenely.</p><p>Glowering at him from the depths of his blankets and furs, Wilde petulantly states: “I have never expressed interest in a relationship with you.”</p><p>“You literally brought up marriage. You said it yourself first. Am I wrong?” he repeats. “If I’m wrong, tell me that it was just a joke. Look me in the face and tell me that it was just a joke, tell me I’m wrong and you don’t really want that.”</p><p>Wilde glares at him for a few seconds, simmering so hard Zolf expects to see steam and bubbles come out from his ears, and then he, the professional dissimulator and artist of lies, looks away.</p><p>Wilde pulls the blankets tighter around himself, hides his face into his bowl and takes another sip, sullen and sour. He curls, like an enormous cocoon, around the comfort of that bowl of crappy boozed-up soup. Zolf sits next to him and drinks his own, and waits, unbothered, patient. He is ready to wait as long as it takes, there’s not the issue; he simply refuses to never give it a chance to take at all.</p><p>“You are asking for sincerity,” Wilde finally mutters, without looking up, “in a world in which a little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal. Time and place, Zolf,” he sighs. He’s still not looking directly at him. “That’s what <em>you</em> said yourself.”</p><p>Between two sips, Zolf replies calmly, without looking at him either: “I think now’s a perfect time.”</p><p>“How? Nothing’s changed since you said that,” Wilde stresses, clutching his bowl. There’s a note of almost desperation, mostly weariness, to his voice. “The world is still the same, the infection is still at large and we still don’t know anything about it, we’ve learned nothing more, made no progress. Nothing’s changed.”</p><p>“Plenty’s changed.” Zolf finishes his soup in a long gulp and smacks his lips again. The booze modification is still terrible but it is growing on him. “You died.”</p><p>“And I might again, and so might you.”</p><p>“Yup. So, while you were dead, I got to thinkin’.”</p><p>Zolf puts his bowl down on the ground, by his mechanical feet, and leans over, crossing his arms and resting them on his thighs. The fire is still going strong — and they’ll be making sure it keeps that up throughout the night — but it’s well into the evening and the chill is starting to make itself known, and he rubs his forearms as he stares distractedly into the hypnotic dance of the flames.</p><p>“I know that whole, caution, vigilance, can’t trust anymore, don’t give the enemy an easy way in, don’t make yourself easy to hurt. Yeah, okay. Sure. I know you’ve been there done that and it sucked. All right. Sounds sensible. I get it. Except, turns out! When I saw you dead, guess what, it turns out I didn’t think, <em>oh, whoopsie-doopsies, phew, sure dodged a bad one there, sure am glad I wasn’t dating that idiot before he went and got himself killed</em>. I just thought I regretted that I’d never actually tried, and that I’d never get the chance to know, after all, if maybe we could have worked out. <em>So.</em> Sod that. Yeah, it’s still risky, yeah, one or both of us might still die or even worse — but, personally. I’d rather be with you through it than not. Whatever that means. Even with all the danger and all the risk for pain, and betrayal, and death — I know for a fact, now, that if you die, I’d rather be mourning something I actually got. Even just for a while. No matter what it ended up being exactly.”</p><p>His face is hot, he can feel it, so he’s probably visibly flushing, but his voice is firm and calm regardless. He clears his throat.</p><p>“So. That’s me.” Shifts in place; rubs up his arms again. He really should go get some furs, too, now that he’s stopped windmilling around his makeshift kitchen. “I know you have your own problems, with all that, with committing and also just trust — that’s fair, I get that. If it’s too much, okay, I’ll respect that. But it turns out I have to ask, so, I’m askin’. What do <em>you</em> say?”</p><p>When he chances a glance, Wilde is staring into the fire too, gripping his furs and blankets tight with one hand, and the golden and orange light is dancing over his pale messed-up face, his large white scar, his tousled white hair. He’s rubbing the knuckles of his free hand up and down the scar; Zolf still isn’t ever able to figure out if he’s aware when he’s doing that, if it’s an involuntary slip-up of vulnerability or a deliberate message of warning.</p><p>Eventually, he murmurs: “That’s a lot of thoughts to have in twenty minutes.”</p><p>“‘Twas a very long twenty minutes,” Zolf replies, just as quiet. “Though, I got there in the first twenty seconds, pretty much.”</p><p>“Oh, fantastic,” Wilde sighs, shutting his eyes in hyperdramatic lassitude, but there’s a weird little grimace with it, his eyebrows clowning around, as though he’s also rolling his eyes under the lowered lids. His hand drops and comes to clutch around the bowl sitting empty in his lap. “Twenty seconds’ consideration. What a sell, Mister Smith.”</p><p>Zolf makes a show of pretending to kick him in the shins, even though he has long learned not to do that, with the various legs he’s had over the years that have made the act either impractical or genuinely damaging. “<em>I mean</em>, I’ve been thinking about it for the past two hours too, I’m just still reaching the same conclusion.”</p><p>“Got it. Two hours’ worth of consideration.”</p><p>Zolf reaches out again, leans over and up, and ruffles Wilde’s hair, roughly and affectionately; Wilde groans in protest, but it isn’t very loud or very firm, and then he, slowly, melts into it, droops and sags against Zolf’s arm, the smallest and most important of landslides, until his forehead is resting on Zolf’s shoulder, and everyone is still around to see and Zolf still doesn’t care anymore.</p><p>(As for Wilde, he suspects the part of the public persona that craved and thrived on attention and drama and riling up an audience was always genuine, so. Probably all fine by him too.)</p><p>“All right,” Wildes sighs again, against him. Up close like this, Zolf can feel that the entire rest of his body is actually, very slightly, trembling too. “You’re right, I can’t tell you no. But it’s… it’s a lot —”</p><p>“Big,” Zolf acquiesces, gravely.</p><p>He feels a jolt go through Wilde’s body as he coughs hard, and then the shaking is a little more pronounced, in silent, contained snickering. Zolf gives a fierce rub up his back, even though Wilde probably doesn’t feel it much through the thick layers. “Quite. <em>So</em>, I am not ready to say yes, either. At least just yet. Give me time to get there. But,” he marks a pause and Zolf thinks he must be catching his breath, perhaps swallowing or wetting his lips, psyching himself up into it, “I promise you I am thinking about your proposition.”</p><p>“All right,” Zolf whispers. “That’s all — well, nah, it’s not <em>all</em> I wanted, but it’s good. I’m good with that. Thank you.”</p><p>“In the meantime, though, I think I would like to sleep with you tonight.”</p><p>“Right, uh, funnily enough, that’s not part of my offer.”</p><p>And here Wilde laughs. It’s short, more of a brief bark than anything, not much energy to it, but it’s even more unfamiliar and dizzying to hear than the singing, and it’s warm in the crook of Zolf’s neck. “I know. I know, I do mean literal sleep. Oh, what have you done to me, Mister Smith,” he cracks, leaning away to gaze up at Zolf. His mouth is still half-twisted into a smile — wonky, sardonic, but not a smirk, a smile.</p><p>Zolf pats his back. “Making a respectable man out of you.”</p><p>“Perish the thought.”</p><p>“Truly. And yes, by the way, sure. I know you’ve,” he gestures, “problems, with the whole sleep thing, too, so, sure, no problem.”</p><p>“And I’m not exactly looking forward to it after today’s adventures in unconsciousness,” Wilde adds, prim.</p><p>“Right. Okay, agreed. Sounds good. Nice. All right, good talk, glad that’s settled,” Zolf goes, louder, “and now, I’m still starving actually so I’m gonna go get some more soup.”</p><p>With a fond shake of his head, Wilde disentangles from him and lets him painstakingly push to his feet and stomp away, back to the simmering pot.</p><p>There’s a lot more to attend to, still. His legs aren’t very fond of manoeuvring deep snow on uneven ground, and the cold stings quite painfully at the junction of the prosthetics with his stumps, so he might need to cast an Endure Elements. And then maybe check with Cel or the kobolds if there’s something they can do to his legs to help, when they have time, but currently Cel and Skraak are inspecting the wreck, which is also something Zolf will need to hear about as first mate. Sohra appears to be feeling better and instructing Azu, Earhart and Kiko in digging shelters in the snow, but there’s definitely not enough for everyone yet. And when he reaches the pot, Hamid, getting his own seconds, raises his prestidigitatedly-defined eyebrows at him with a simultaneously questioning and knowing smile, and there’s nothing to <em>hide</em> but also nothing Hamid needs to hear, nothing concrete, nothing yet, so Zolf just raises his own eyebrows back at him, serves himself first and turns around. And when he’s finished and finally sated, he goes around to check on the other recovering ex-patients.</p><p>“Hey,” Carter says while Zolf takes his heart rate (<em>way</em> too fast). “Hey. Zolf.”</p><p>He snaps his fingers in front of Zolf’s eyes; Zolf loses count, briefly squeezes his eyes shut in annoyance, and starts again.</p><p>“Hey, Zolf. I see you two. I see what’s going on. Not cool, Zolf, sneaking around with a buddy’s ex.”</p><p>“Neither your buddy nor your ex,” Zolf points out mildly. “Okay, well, that’s well over a hundred and ten beats per minute.”</p><p>“Woohoo, go me! So I get to do things again, right?”</p><p>“That’s not good, Carter. That’s ridiculous.”</p><p>“Okay, well, I’m <em>fine</em>. I can do things.”</p><p>“You were <em>dead</em> three hours ago.”</p><p>“But I’m not anymore! Please, Zolf, I’ve been sitting here for hours now, that’s so much worse.”</p><p>“Than <em>death</em>?”</p><p>But Carter continues to whine, and Barnes shrugs in response to Zolf’s questioning look, and besides the stupid fast heartbeat there’s nothing really alarming and the shakey hands shouldn’t hinder digging, so, whatever. Zolf clears them both to go join in the shelter-building, while he goes to see a couple of engineering geniuses about his legs.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The end of the evening is a stark, odd contrast to the tragedy and grief that reigned just a few hours before. Zolf is reminded of the nervous excitement he would watch buzz through his agemates, in their teenagehood, every year around the spring celebrations. Before the festival dance itself, a much more complicated dance would start, of plans and promises made, groups formed, or, critically, pairs. Not that he’d ever joined in that particular tradition, perfectly glad to limit himself to the communal circle dance, but there is something nostalgic and very youthful in Azu’s blushing giddiness as Kiko takes her hand and they retire together to one of the snow caves.</p><p>Not all of the pair-offs are that conspicuous. The kobolds have managed to all vanish without anyone noticing, so that’s cool for them. Everyone just assumes Carter and Barnes are a given, from the sheer fact of their being used to spending days and nights in uncomfortably close proximity and no one else willingly tolerating Carter (“<em>I</em> don’t tolerate Carter either?” Barnes mumbles). Earhart steps up and offers, as the captain, to share with their guest. Friedrich and Siggif exchange an awkward but not horrendously miserable shrug.</p><p>Still, Zolf check in with Cel as they work away at unfastening his legs. “You’ll be good with Hamid?”</p><p>“Hm? Oh! Oh, yes, thank you for your, ehhh, consideration, Mister Smith, it’s not — it’s quite fine. I like the little buddy! Of course, size-wise, we might run into some complications if cuddling was a requisite, that could prove an issue, but it seems these shelters make for very good insulation and we should be quite warm, or so Master Sohra says at least. No cuddling necessary!”</p><p>“Aw,” Wilde quips wryly, from the mountain of furs he’s already buried in.</p><p>Cel’s eyebrows waggle. It makes the rays of light from the little lamps affixed to their goggles dance around the cramped shelter, and their screwdriver misses its target and fumbles for a few seconds. “Uhuuhh. Say, I know you said otherwise, like, five times already, but —”</p><p>“I sure did,” Zolf cuts in swift and smooth. “Thanks, Cel.”</p><p>“Right, right.” They still give him a wink, which, to be frank, Zolf considers returning. In fact, there is a non-zero chance that Wilde, behind him, did. “Well, then, good night, both of you. Do try to be decent when I come by in the morning, I suppose?” (“We will,” Zolf deadpans.) “And if I’m not up yet, don’t worry and just come give me a good shake, Mister Wilde, but I probably will be, I’m not sure how much light we’re going to get here but with any luck I’ll have been able to have a look at these babies —” they give a jovial, metallically resounding clap to Zolf’s detached legs “— for a couple hours by the time you wake up. I don’t sleep that much, and, oh, Mister Smith, I promise, I understand this is very important to you, very intimate, I am very respectful, don’t worry, but, you know, I am super excited to take a look at these and see what I can do to pimp them up, so to speak, thank you so much for the opportunity. And the show of trust. And the opportunity. Mostly the opportunity, if I’m honest.”</p><p>“Sure, thank you too. See you tomorrow. Cel?”</p><p>“Yes, Mister Smith?”</p><p>“Don’t blow them up.”</p><p>“Yes, Mister Smith.”</p><p>Cel wiggles out with the legs and lets the flap (a remnant of the draperies of the ‘Bow Bar’) fall closed behind them, and Zolf drags himself properly into bed. The shelter is only as long as Wilde is — a little less, even, Wilde tossed around for a bit to find a comfortable position with his legs slightly bent — so it’s not a problematic distance to have to pull himself across with only his upper body strength. He crawls his way across the blankets and furs easily enough, and the biggest issue is shuffling in and under them, but even that is quite manageable.</p><p>“I know it’s all for your own benefit, but I will admit it is a relief for me, too, to not be sharing a bed with metal legs,” Wilde drawls. One of his own legs moves just enough for his knee to touch the side of Zolf’s thigh, which can’t be comfortable for him. Zolf gives it a swat, under the covers, and it just presses back even more against his hand, cheekily, before retreating.</p><p>“Just taking ‘em off tonight ‘cus the contact with metal’s not great in this cold,” Zolf explains, shuffling around for a good position with a heavy sigh. “Don’t want to hurt through the night. So Cel’s going to see if they can do somethin’ about that. But I usually keep ‘em on, they’re not meant to be removed all the time. So, you might want to get used to that in the future,” he gibes back.</p><p>Wilde makes a quiet little noise. It sounds to be, technically, a protest, but about as strong and opinionated as the whine of a half-asleep puppy in reaction to an offence as dire as being moved to the other side of one’s arms.</p><p>He has been swaddled up under there for long enough that the covers have already wonderfully taken to his body heat, and Zolf, just lying next to him, eyes closed, can feel it radiate, can feel Wilde’s body and presence in the dark without even seeing or touching him.</p><p>“Zolf?” Wilde whispers drowsily.</p><p>He swallows, silently, to keep his voice steady. “Yeah?”</p><p>“I can’t be called Oscar Smith. That’s no name for a renowned socialite. I’d have to rebuild my entire brand from scratch.”</p><p>Zolf pushes himself onto his side and reaches out just to find Wilde’s face — the dark is not a problem but locating his head in the sea of blankets is — and, carefully, very carefully, give him the gentlest of headbutts.</p><p>“Goodnight, Oscar.”</p><p>“It just doesn’t roll off the tongue, you know?” Oscar yawns. “I guess you’ll have to be Zolf Wilde.”</p><p>“Lucky I’m not exactly attached to the name ‘Smith’.” Zolf rubs their foreheads together. “Go to sleep, idiot.”</p><p>“Yes, yes,” he mumbles, in the voice of the perfectly reasonable, but indeed sleepy. He shifts and turns, and reaches out, hand first, connecting with Zolf’s ribcage, slowly continuing, up up up, arm draping across Zolf’s torso, wrapping around, and when Zolf doesn’t push him away Oscar draws himself closer, his knees pulling up again, a leg lying across Zolf’s thighs, his head coming to nestle into Zolf’s chest. The tremor is still going, just a litte; Zolf can only feel it because Oscar’s weight is resting on him.</p><p>It’s warm.</p><p>Zolf tugs his forearm out from under Oscar’s torso to curl it back up around his back, burrow into his hair and scratch his scalp. Oscar hums into it. “Wake me up if I start screaming,” he mutters into Zolf’s beard.</p><p>“Same.”</p><p>Quietly, buried in the blankets, in Zolf’s beard, in Zolf’s chest, Oscar laughs, and Zolf presses his mouth into his white hair. And it’s probably going to take both of them a few hours to actually fall asleep, it’s going to take them some time, but they will get there, eventually.</p>
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